Welcome To My World
by barton-nat
Summary: A week after the Battle of Manhattan and Clint is just getting back into the field after being mind controlled by Loki. Overcoming the psychological aftermath of his forced betrayal and the wedge it is driving between him and Nat gets more difficult when they receive their next mission.
1. Bad Dreams

Fuck, another nightmare. At this rate I'll never get to sleep through sunrise like I used to, to roll over, pull a pillow up over my head, and go back to sleep. I'd give anything for that. Well, almost anything.

The evaluation is today. I'd like to tell myself it's just a formality, given all the shit that went down in New York last week. If I was okay enough for a mission then I sure ought to be field ready after a week of R&R but that was different and I know it. When your own guys are considering nuking New York to minimize the damage you know they aren't exactly going to turn you down if you're willing to fight, even if you're still fucked in the head. So yeah, maybe I'm sweating a little.

Not that there'll be any official consequences for me. That was already decided last week. "This investigation finds that Agent Barton was psychologically compromised through no fault of his own." Yeah, right. Not choosing it - to kill those SHIELD agents, to fight for Loki, to go after Nat with a knife - that isn't the same thing as not fucking up. I could have done a dozen things differently but I walked right up to Loki, took one look at that goddamn scepter, and turned traitor in two seconds flat.

Call me crazy, but I miss the old days when all the bad guys could do was torture you. It hurt like hell but you were still in the game, you know? Not like this. No hard choices, no stubbornness, no making it worse because you're pissing them off. You're just done - sidelined. Not sent home though, oh no. Watching from the bench, that's the worst part.

Fuck this, I need to get out of the apartment. Stretch my legs, get my mind off this. Being cooped up the past week while I heal from fighting that alien army has been bad enough.

I grab my coat and head out for coffee but I barely get the door open before I come face to face with Nat.

She's got on a light jacket, makeup that almost covers her own fading bruises, and two coffees in her hands. "So predictable," she says with a shake of her head and the lopsided hint of a smile. "A creature of habit and a spy. God, what a terrible combination. What would you have done if I were an assassin?"

"You are an assassin," I point out with a half smile of my own. I've got a lot on my mind but I can't help it with Nat, she always brings that out in me. "So I guess if you were an assassin I'd be standing here answering the door in my sweatpants, eager to drink the coffee that some foxy redhead just delivered to my door."

Her eyes narrow but the other side of her mouth curves up as well, so score one for me. "No hidden weapons, no backup plan? Come on, Barton, how dare you lose your touch. Who's going to watch my back now?"

"Hey, who said I didn't have a backup plan?" I point out, tugging up the sleeve of my sweatshirt to reveal the bracers around my wrists, knives secured snugly into the leather.

"Hmmm," Nat says, arching one eyebrow in an elegant display of skepticism as she brushes past me into the apartment. "Hand to hand? Not your strong suit, Barton."

I shrug and accept the offered coffee. "Last I checked you can't bring a longbow into Starbucks."

"Last I checked you also can't bring a longbow into a Saudi Arabian embassy, the Pentagon, or the Queen of England's birthday party and yet here we are," Nat points out, shrugging out of her jacket and moving into the kitchen. "More Chinese takeout, Barton, really? How you stay fit on a diet like yours I'll never know."

"Hey I've seen you put away my homemade pashka like there's no tomorrow but someone you manage," I say, taking a sip of the hot coffee and not caring when it burns my mouth. I'd do anything to wake up.

"Of course," Nat agrees, taking a seat at the tiny kitchen table and propping her feet up on the opposite chair. "Which is why it's fortunate I can't have your homemade pashka delivered to my door at any hour of the day or night."

"Hey who says you can't?" I say. "I'm your partner. I'm at your disposal, remember?"

"Any interesting proposition," she says, her mouth tugging up at the corner again as she takes a small sip of her coffee. "I do seem to recall you saying that."

I consider joining her at the table but even without the coffee I know I won't be able to sit still for long so I lean back against the countertop instead. "Exactly. I might have been high on pain meds on that rooftop in Taiwan when I said that. Doesn't make it any less true, though."

"Good," she says, and I wonder how she manages to make a single word sound so...something. Promising? My words are just words, but hers can really be something else.

"So. What are you doing here, Nat?" I ask, taking another hot gulp of coffee. It doesn't burn my mouth this time, though, and I kind of wish it would but that's a train of thought I'd rather not follow.

"Your eval's today," she says simply.

"Yeah."

"So how are you?"

That's the real question, isn't it? The field test part of the eval I know I can pass. Most of my bruises are just an ugly shade of camo green by now, the cuts don't come apart when I move anymore, and the fractures, well, I can just grit my teeth and get through the pain. But the psych eval? I'm pretty sure that's not how you're supposed to pass that part. Or maybe that's the only way anyone ever passes? Fuck, I have no idea.

After a second too long I shrug and force a smile. "Isn't that kind of what the eval's supposed to tell us?" I say as casually as I can.

Nat frowns at me. "This is your partner asking you for a sit rep," she says. "Don't bullshit me, Barton."

I try not to smile because I know she's serious but for some reason Nat swearing is always funny to me. Which it shouldn't be, I mean it makes sense she wouldn't do it much. When you're raised to seem like everything to everyone all the time I guess you would choose your words carefully. Mostly, though, I think I just like hearing it because it means she isn't being so calculated with me. Still, there's a downside to that, since it means I owe her the same.

"I've been better," I admit.

"Really? I had no idea," she says.

"Hey, I'm trying to open up here," I say, pushing myself off the counter and walking to the far side of the kitchen. Gotta keep moving. The last time I was this wired I was on a rooftop in Prague, I'd been subsisting on caffeine pills for the last three days, and somebody had just made my position.

What's my excuse today? I mean, what the hell am I so afraid of? The eval? Loki and that goddamn scepter, which aren't even in this dimension anymore? Having control taken away from me again? Having to admit to a SHIELD shrink that something finally got to me? Opening up to Nat? All of the above? Fuck me.

"Hey, I know," Nat says, rising from the table to come stand with me. One of her hands comes to rest lightly on my shoulder, which is good because it still hurts where she almost dislocated it in our fight on the helicarrier. Not that I blame her. Obviously. She could have killed me and I wouldn't have blamed her. Hell, thinking about it that way I kind of wish she'd press harder.

And there it is. That thing that's bothering me, or at least part of it. The one thing I swore I'd never do.

"You remember Crimea?" I say, even though I know she does. We've both got scars to show for it, though I definitely have more from that mission. That's what happens when the bad guys find you.

"You know that I do," she says. Her voice is low but we're so close that it doesn't matter, her breath whispering softly against my neck.

"God, they wanted me to give you up so bad."

"I know," Nat says again, her hand moving down my back and underneath the hem of my sweatshirt to find the nearest scar, a raised burn scar on the right side of my lower back.

"Nat…" I say. It's hard to focus on anything else when she's this close but the memories still manage to come through, jarring and painful against the reality of her soft touch. "I would have died for you, you know that."

"You almost did." At this point her words are barely audible, it's like I'm picking up the vibrations through the skin as she whispers them into me. I guess saying the words any louder would make them too real.

"Yeah." She's right, I almost did. And I'd do it again. "Not last week, though," I mutter, a bitter edge to my voice.

"Clint…"

"Don't," I say. "Don't try to rationalize it. Nothing can justify what did. And what I almost did to you..."

"Nothing?" Nat challenges, her fingers gripping my skin under the sweatshirt as she turns me around to face her. "Not even an alien god?"

"We were trained to handle anything," I remind her, looking away though she's so close it's hard not to meet her gaze.

"Exposure, exhaustion, torture, seduction," Nat says, leaning forward until she's practically pinning me to countertop behind me. Now I have to look at her. "Not mind control."

Her flecked green eyes burn into mine. My instinct is to grab her hips and switch our positions so it's her back against the counter but I don't move. I'm afraid to touch her, like if I do then everything I wanted to do to her in our fight last week will suddenly come true.

"I can't do this," I say, slipping under her arm and pacing to the other side of the kitchen. "I can't…"

"Can't what?" she asks innocently, though her smile is anything but innocent as she stalks gracefully towards me. "You don't know what I was going to do next."

There it is, the old assassin programming that kept her alive for so long. I haven't seen her fall back into that defense mechanism in a while.

"Who am I talking to?" I ask. It's our standard question. I know how to read the signs in case she doesn't break out of the programming.

Her smile fades and it's her turn to look away. "Sorry, force of habit. You aren't the only assassin here with issues, you know." Her smile returns but this time it's small and rueful and entirely her own as her gaze returns to mine. "Stop stealing my move, Barton."

"Right," I say with a harsh laugh, releasing a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. "Sorry."

"But seriously, Barton," Nat says, her movement losing it's predatory quality as she comes to stand beside me again. This time she just wraps her fingers through mine and squeezes my hand gently. "Don't torture yourself, okay? I couldn't stand watching those Russian soldiers do it and I can't watch you do it to yourself."

Carefully, almost reluctantly, I squeeze back. "I won't let it get that bad," I say softly, but given the scars they left before Nat made them stop it's really not much of a concession.


	2. The Waiting Room

Several hours later I sit stiffly in a waiting room chair at SHIELD headquarters, absently tracing the three inch scar on the inside of my right forearm. Evidence of just how young and stupid I'd been the first time I picked up a bow. Granted my world has changed a lot since then and I've picked up a few tricks but sometimes I still feel like that stupid little punk. All swagger and in way over my head. I guess meeting two actual gods, an army of space aliens, and the real live Captain America has a way putting things into perspective.

And then there's the mind control. Magic or science or whatever the fuck, it doesn't matter. Being used and manipulated, I'm used to that part. Growing up as an unwanted orphan, having to earn my keep every single day as a carnie, sometimes in ways I'm not proud of, joining the Army to escape only to end up fighting the Iraqis over WMDs they never actually had, and working for a shadow organization like SHIELD? Let's just say I've had plenty of opportunities to feel stupid.

Which is part of what's bothering me so much this time because I still feel stupid even though I have no idea how exactly I fucked up. I mean I made some stupid tactical mistakes, sure, like letting myself get disarmed and letting Loki get in close. But I've made tactical mistakes before and paid for them the old fashioned way, with battle scars, botched assignments, imprisonment and torture, and sometimes even collateral damage.

Turning traitor, though, that's not something you do on accident. Missing a shot, overlooking the last surviving member of a security detail, not adequately clearing a building before detonating an explosive, those are mistakes. But the choices I made after that goddamn scepter touched me, the decisions I regret so much that it actually hurts? Unforgivable. And yet I don't even know what I should have done differently to keep Loki out or what I could possibly do differently if it ever happens again.

Fuck that's a terrifying thought.

Before I can consider that any further a gruff voice cuts in. "Agent Barton. You're a sight for sore eyes. Well, let's make that eye."

"Nice to see you too, sir," I say, shaking away my dark thoughts as best I can while consciously resisting the urge to stand in the SHIELD director's presence. A holdover from my Army days. "What are you doing down here among us mere mortals?"

"Observing your eval of course," Fury says as if it's standard procedures, though I'm pretty damn sure it's not.

"No patient doctor confidentiality today, huh?" I say with a forced smile. "I thought it was just gonna be me and the doc."

"Given that the decision to reinstate you to field status rests with me, and not Dr. Kitson, sitting this meeting out seemed ill-advised."

I shrug my sore shoulders. "Whatever you say, sir," I say as casually as I can. "You're the director."

Just then the secretary approaches us, her blonde braid swaying behind her. "The doctor is ready for you, Agent Barton," she says. Her eyebrows furrow as she glances at the director. "Director Fury, can I help you with something?"

"That won't be necessary," he says, falling into step behind me as I rise and move towards the office door.

"Um," she says after a moment of hesitation, "Director, sir, you really don't need to go in with him."

"Yes I do," he says with a tone of finality as he follows me into the office and closes the door behind us.

She doesn't follow us.


	3. The Psych Eval

Dr. Kitson's office is brightly lit and simple - a desk, a lamp, two chairs, a couch, and a single potted plant in the corner. The decor is modern in style rather than the futuristic look I've come to expect from SHIELD.

"Agent Barton," she says with a smile, rising from behind her desk to greet us. "Can I call you Clint?"

"Sure, doc. Knock yourself out."

Her handshake is warm but firm. "It's nice to meet you, Clint. I've heard a lot about your work." When she turns to Fury her demeanor shifts and I get the the feeling she doesn't want him here much more than I do because all he gets is a simple nod. "Director."

She offers me a seat and I take the couch because it prevents me from having my back to the door.

"All the field agents and veterans sit there," she observes with a knowing smile.

"Alright doc," I say, pressing my back into the chair so hard that my bruises ache. "Let's just get this over with."

She raises an eyebrow. "You think this is a waste of time?"

"No ma'am," I say, my mouth pressing into a grim line. "Just not something I'm looking forward to."

Her mouth quirks up. "Fair enough. Why don't we start by discussing what brought you here today, Clint?"

"Seriously?" I say. "'Cause I'd bet my entire tac knife collection that you've read my file at least twice. Hell, if it isn't within arm's reach on your desk you can have my compound bow too."

"You're right, I won't be taking that bet," she admits. "But it's important that I get to hear it in your own words. So please." She gestures for me to go ahead, like it's just that easy.

"Fine," I say, letting out a long breath. "You really want to hear it? I got stupid, ok? I got stupid, Loki got in close, and I...I just...Fuck."

Way to be professional, Barton. It's just a mission report.

I square my shoulders and assume a soldier's tone. "I made the mistake of allowing Loki to get in close. He put that alien scepter whammy on me and I started taking his orders and became his lieutenant. In that state I killed forty-nine people, most of them SHIELD agents, and participated in the deaths of everyone else who died in the New York invasion. I fought against my partner Natasha and tried to kill her too." A hint of pride mixes with the guilt in my voice. "Fortunately for all of us she's a better agent than me. She managed to subdue me and get Loki out of my head. After that I fought Loki, ate some schwarma, testified about my actions to a SHIELD committee, and slept for a week. Does that about cover it?"

Dr. Kitson looks up from her desk where she's been taking notes in my file. "So I guess you've had a rough week."

I give a harsh laugh. "You could say that."

"Tell me about Loki, Clint. You've spent more time with him than any of the other Avengers, with the exception of his brother Thor. What's he like?"

I roll my shoulders to shake out the tightness. Just another mission report, I remind myself. "He's a textbook sociopath. If I had to guess he's also got narcissistic personality disorder with antisocial and sadistic tendencies. He's an attention seeker to the core and he loves causing pain if he can use it to make himself feel powerful."

"And when you were under his influence how would you describe yourself?"

The question takes me a little off guard and I glance over at Fury, who's leaning impassively against the nearby wall. "Sociopath," I admit with a swallow, my gaze returning to the doctor. "And dissociative personality disorder."

"I see. And how would you describe the transition from being in your right mind to being in that state? Really, not clinically."

"It was like being taken apart," I say, my voice quiet.

"In what way? Describe that feeling."

"Loki, he...he took me apart like a Lego set. And when he reassembled me he only kept the pieces he liked. Combat skills, tactics, memories. Hell, he even kept me loyal and competitive, whatever parts of my personality he thought he could use. Mostly though I think he just left out my ability to say no."

Dr. Kitson nods. "Have you ever felt like that before? That you couldn't say no?"

"It was a long time ago," I say, crossing my arms. "And anyway it wasn't magic."

"Would you like to talk about it? Your time at the carnival?"

"Not really, doc. I learned how to shoot and I got out. Not much else to say."

"Hm," she says but doesn't press the issue. "Ok, let's talk about afterwards then. After escaping the circus and regaining control of your life what sort of behavior did you engage in? How did you go about healing from that experience?"

"You mean how self-destructive was I?"

"Your words not mine," she says with a small smile.

"Well, let's see. There was the booze, getting kicked out of the Olympics for unsportsmanlike behavior, and my life of crime. Not to mention my stint in the Army, which started out pretty self-destructive if we're being honest. But I assume you already have something in mind."

"I think you've covered it," she says. "Do you know why I'm asking you these questions, Clint?"

"With all due respect, doc, I'd been a self-destructive little shit for a while at that point. It wasn't about anything that happened to me."

"So you don't think it's a valid concern for SHIELD, that you might attempt to cope in similarly self-destructive ways?"

"Look at my record, doc. I'd already started keeping my nose clean before SHIELD recruited me out of Special Forces and that hasn't changed. I know what's important and my personal issues, whatever they might be, just don't rank."

She seems satisfied but it's hard to tell as she glances up from making more notes. "Let's talk about the present. How have you been sleeping?"

"About like you'd expect," I say. "Or did you miss the part where I killed forty-nine people?"

"Any nightmares?" she presses, ignoring my sarcasm.

I nod. "Just the one," I say. "Let me guess, you wanna hear about it?"

"That would be helpful."

I take a breath. "It's like you'd expect," I say. "I'm under Loki's spell and there's a row of people in front of me. They're all lined up like targets at a shooting range and I start walking down the line. Just like in SHIELD training, there's a voice calling out the kind of shot I should take - head, chest, neck, whatever. Except it's Loki's voice. Eventually I get to...to Nat. Like the rest of them she can't move aside but she looks me right in the eyes and shakes her head once. But I have my orders. So I raise my bow and Loki calls it. Headshot."

My voice is getting thick so I stop talking for a few seconds to regain my composure. "And I take it, doc. I take the shot like she means nothing to me. Like she could ever mean nothing to me. That woman is…"

I don't finish the sentence. Partially because it seems wrong that the doc and goddamn Fury in the corner should hear words I haven't even told Nat but mostly because I don't even know how to finish that sentence. Anything I say just wouldn't be enough.

Dr. Kitson scratches down some more notes. "If you don't mind my asking, Clint, what is the nature of your relationship with her, with Agent Romanofff?"

"She's my partner," I say. We get that question a lot and we always give the same answer. Fortunately for us both that word has a somewhat ambiguous definition.

"Just your partner? Nothing more?"

"You say that like there is something more than that," I say. Sure I'm dodging but I mean it, too.

The doctor gives me an indulgent smile. "I'm sure you can think of something."

"I know what you're thinking, doc, and respectfully I'd have to disagree."

She gives me a calculating look but decides to leave it alone. "So back to this dream," she says. "Of course it's not uncommon for victims of trauma to have nightmares that parallel those experiences. But these kinds of recurring nightmares are more often the result of anxieties that arise after a traumatic experience than a result of the experience itself. Does that sound like something you've encountered since the incident?"

I don't answer the question. Instead I say, "I'm not a victim."

She frowns. "Excuse me?

"You heard me."

She looks at me for a long moment. "That isn't your identify or you don't believe you're a victim in this situation?"

"Both. I told you, doc, I screwed up. That's how we got here."

She looks at me sadly like my mother used to whenever she found out Barney and I were in trouble again, which was always. I shake away the memory.

"You don't think having your freewill wrenched from your grasp by an Asgardian prince was victimizing in any way?"

"What do you want me to say, doc? That I was helpless, useless, just a goddamn puppet? Is that what you want to hear?"

Dr. Kitson stops taking notes and starts stacking her papers together almost like she's about to leave. She's doesn't though, she just closes the file and laces her fingers as she watches me. "I know what you're doing, Clint," she says. "You don't want to give up the guilt."

I fold my arms. "Excuse me?" I say, echoing her words. Still, I don't like how sure she sounds.

"You think you need it. Anything's better than being powerless, right?" she says softly.

Her tone is anything but triumphant but now my unsettling thoughts from the waiting room come rushing back. "Fuck."

"I'm sorry, Clint. I'm just trying to help."

"Unless you can give me a thicker skull," I say, rubbing a hand over my tired eyes, "I'm not sure what else you can do for me."

"Let's avoid that, doctor," Fury interjects in a wry tone as he detaches himself from the wall he's been leaning against. "Barton's skull is thick enough." He turns to me. "Step outside for a minute. The doctor and I need to talk."


	4. The Warm Up

The secretary looks up as I step back into the waiting room and gives me a smile. "You must really be important," she says, "To get Director Fury down here."

"Not sure why he's so interested."

She tilts her head. "I follow the news, Agent Barton. I know you helped save New York."

"That's not exactly the whole story," I say. "Besides, this is Director Fury we're talking about. He doesn't care about the past, only the future."

"Maybe he has a mission lined up for you," she suggests. "Any idea what it might be?"

She's probably just being friendly but the question still sets off an alarm in my head. As a SHIELD employee she should really know better than to ask me a question like that. Unless she's breaking protocol on purpose to feel me out for information. Or maybe she's just young and curious.

"You know I can't talk about that," I say.

She gives me an apologetic look. "Right. Sorry," she says, looking down at her desk.

Just then Fury emerges from Dr. Kitson's office and beckons me to follow him.

"Well?" I say as I fall in beside him.

"Well, what?" Fury says. "You think I'd still be wasting my time here with you if you'd failed? I'm here because it's time for your field test."

"I thought that wasn't until four." I glance sideways at the director as we walk. "Something going on that I should know about, sir?"

"Pass the test then we'll talk," he says. "We're doing things a little different today. You won't be doing the standard SHIELD exercises."

"You mean I don't have to run til I puke? Sign me up," I say. Then a hint of suspicion enters my voice. "Wait, what am I doing instead?"

He opens the door to the sparing room and I follow him inside. "You'll be facing off against Agent Romanoff."

Nat's in the middle of the room's padded black floor mats warming up. Her hair is up in a long red braid that ripples through the air as she darts around the mats, smiting an army of imaginary foes with a pair of electric batons. She wearing the full Black Widow uniform with her utility belt and so many weapons available to her that it's not even funny. Granted, I have my usual array of concealed weapons but I still feel underdressed in my plaid flannel, dark jeans, and combat boots. I don't even have my bow on me.

That's hardly the issue though.

"Why the sudden change of plans?" I ask, trying not to let my discomfort at the thought of fighting Nat show. "The usual exercises and then sparring with that Rumlow guy was good enough for you last week but not now?"

"Why do you think?" the director says, watching me narrowly through his good eye. "You think I don't know what's been going on between you? I saw the two of you at your SHIELD hearing. You could barely look her. And given your usual and unsubtle penchant for sharing glances, furniture, and PDA unbecoming of supposed professionals such as yourselves, I was understandably a bit concerned. So I talked to Natasha. Turns out you've been handling her about as delicately as my grandmother's nicnac collection since New York."

"Respectfully, sir, I don't see how that's any of your damn business," I say, glancing unhappily past him at Nat as she backflips over more imaginary opponents. She talked to Fury about our relationship without telling me?

"I'm perfectly willing to accept the eccentricities and ambiguity of your relationship," the director says, "As long as you continue to function well as partners. What I cannot accept is two agents with unresolved personal issues going back into the field together. If Agent Romanoff is willing to risk her own life for this agency but you're not willing to risk her then your partnership is of zero value to me. So. Consider this part two of your psych eval. Hold your own against Agent Romanoff and I'll send you back into the field together. Or don't. But unless you want Agent Romanoff to get assigned to a new partner I suggest you find a way to work through this."

There's a lot I'd like to say to the director but I've learned my lesson about that from the Army. "Yes, sir."

I move past him to go stand with Nat, who's just finishing her warm up.

"You talked to him about us?" I say quietly, my tone accusing. It's either that or sound hurt and I don't like admitting it when that happens.

She looks me straight in the eyes but I've known her long enough to sense that she's torn about it. "He came to me and asked me flat out if we were having problems. And after what happened to Coulson," she says, her voice a study in neutrality despite the mention of our fallen handler. "He's our handler now, Clint. What did you want me to say?"

"Nat, he's thinking about reassigning me. How could you risk that?"

"Come on, Barton. You think I should have just lied to him? If he's sending us into the field he has a right to know. Besides, he was obviously onto us after the hearing."

"Why not? You're good at it. This isn't about him."

"It is when it's going to affect our work. He has a point. You're barely held my hand all week. You won't talk to me. If you don't trust me or you don't trust yourself around me then how are we going to run a mission together? I need to know that you'll let me have your back when it counts."

"You're worried about me now? That's hilarious. I almost killed you!"

"That was Loki. And come on, it wasn't that close," she says, a crooked smile tugging at the side of her mouth.

"That's not funny. It was way too close and you know it."

She lets out a breath and takes my hand, her thumb gently pressing against the healing skin where she bit me during our fight. "I can take care of myself, Clint. I want you as my partner. I…" For a second I think she'll say the words we always lose the nerve to say but of course she doesn't. "I owe you a debt."

"Come on, Nat," I say softly. "You gotta stop saying that."

"Make me," she says with a quick flash of a smile. Then she leans into me and her voice is serious. "You know what? Feel guilty about last week if you have to, Clint. If that's what you need then I won't stop you. But if you're going to feel guilty about it then that means you owe me for a change and that means you have to do what I say. And I say you have to fight for us. Okay?"

There isn't much space between us but she does away with what little remains, leaning in to press her lips gently to mine. My first thought is that Fury is watching but that's my last coherent thought before I realize I'm kissing her back.

"I knew you'd come around," she says with a breathless smile, her face flushed as she draws back from my lips. Our eyes meet and she squeezes my hand gently. "Now let's do this."


	5. The Combat Eval

Nat and I step back a few paces to face each other. I've got four knives in my wrist bracers, a gun in my right ankle holster, and of course my bruised body. Against the fucking Black Widow. Now that I think about it I'm not looking forward to this fight for a few reasons.

"I don't get my bow for this, huh?" I say, glancing over at Fury as Nat and I begin to circle each other.

"Nope," he says, settling his back against the nearest wall to watch. "This is going to be fun."

Nat smirks. "Hey at least you don't have to run til you drop and do push-ups on those fractured ribs."

"No, you can just kick them in for me instead," I say wryly.

She gives me a predatory smile. "Don't forget I changed your bandages yesterday, Barton. So I know exactly where it hurts."

"You're terrifying," I say as I watch her move gracefully around me, waiting for an opening.

"Good," she says, continuing to circle me as she rotates her batons. I can hear the electricity humming through the air, which makes me especially wary. I've been electrocuted by everything from tasers to electric fences to car batteries. Not a fan.

Several seconds pass. "You know, one of us has to make a move."

"I know," she says, wearing that beautiful, dangerous smile. The Black Widow smile. "So what are you waiting for?"

Damn it. I might as well give up trying to goad Nat into making the first move. I may be a stubborn son-of-a-bitch but she is patient and there's a world of difference between those two.

I lunge forward at Nat, a knife in each hand. She dances gracefully aside and presses an electric baton into my ribs. I stumble backward, my muscles twitching painfully even after the connection is broken.

I get in a few shots of my own with my knives and the gun, though it just grazes her thigh. Eventually we both end up bruised and bleeding on the ground, wrestling to gain the upper hand as we struggle for a choke hold.

"Alright, that's enough," Fury orders. "Go get yourselves cleaned up. Then mission briefing in my office. Fifteen minutes."

XXXXXXXX

I let the warm spray of water sooth the ache in my shoulder and wash out the cuts from Nat's knives. I have freshly bruised ribs for sure and my whole body hurts from the electrical current of her batons.

I could stand here for an hour but I've already taken too much time so I shut off the water in the gym shower and wrap a towel around my waist.

"Hey," Nat says, her long wet hair swaying behind her as she walks towards me in her own towel. Her green eyes look me up and down. "I didn't rough you up too much, did I?"

"You just want an excuse to check me out," I say with a smile, trying to ignore how my blood pumps a little faster as she closes the distance between us.

Her fingers trace lightly over one of my fresh bruises and she leans forward. "You got me," she says, locking her gaze with mine before moving down and pressing her lips against my chest.

Her mouth is velvet and rhythmic and my breath comes faster. "Nat…"

"Yes?" my partner says innocently, disengaging from my chest long enough to lick her lips and raise her gaze back up to mine. Her green eyes are almost black and seem to look straight into my soul.

"Don't we have places to be?" I can't believe she can get me breathless so quick. A testament to my partner's talent.

"Unfortunately," she breathes, her mouth hovering over mine. "I've just...I've missed you, Clint."

"Yeah?" I say, wrapping my hands around her towel covered hips as I press her up against the tiled wall.

I want to say I love her but I can't, so I press my mouth against hers instead and we kiss until even Nat is breathless.

"Time to go?" I say reluctantly as we disengage.

Nat glanced up at the wall clock and back at me. "We've got three minutes. But we might want to put on some clothes before we go meet Fury."


	6. The Mission Briefing

My hair is still wet when I arrive outside Fury's office. I had to dress quickly and I hadn't expected my combat eval until later so I'm back in my dark jeans and combat boots and a spare gray t-shirt I found in my locker with the SHIELD insignia on the chest.

Nat's hair is still wet, too, but she's dressed to kill in black leggings, tall boots, and a blood red leather jacket. Then again that's not surprising. With enough effort I clean up okay but my partner is always impressive.

"You're late," she smirks, like it isn't partially her fault.

"Okay, how did you dress both faster and better than me?"

"I always dress better than you. And faster? You must have been distracted," she says with a shrug and a seductive little smile. "I wonder what you were thinking about…"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I say into her ear as I raise my knuckles and knock on the director's door.

"Come in," Fury barks.

I open the door and hold it for Nat. "You can tell me later," she says quietly, watching me from beneath her lashes as she slips into Fury's office.

"You sure? You might blush."

"Please," Nat shoots back at me over her shoulder. "I never blush."

Fury clears his throat, putting an end to our quiet conversation. "Shut the door, Barton."

I close the door behind us and turn to face the director almost like I'm standing at attention. Old habits. Meanwhile Nat takes one of the armchairs gracefully but leans forward to listen.

"We have a problem," Fury says, closing the thick manila file he has open on his desk and looking up to watch us closely with his one eye. "Loki's scepter was stolen from a SHIELD transport last night in transit to a top secret research facility."

"Bozhe moi."

"You've got to be kidding," I say, my chest tightening as a weight seems to settle there.

"I wish I was."

"Let me get this straight," I say, my voice raising a little despite myself. "We destroyed half of New York to get the damn thing and you lost it? In a week?"

"Trust me, I'm as angry as you are."

"Respectfully, sir, I don't think you are."

"Clint…" Nat says, reaching out to take my hand.

"No," I say, pulling my hand away. "SHIELD agents died to get that goddamn thing and now oops we've misplaced it? That scepter is one of the most dangerous pieces of tech this country has gotten its hands on since the Manhattan Project. How the hell could you let this happen?"

"Are you done?" Fury says in a raised voice, standing from his chair as he glares at me. "You don't have to explain the severity of the situation to me, Barton. And we both know why this situation bothers you so much, so you can stop pretending to be angry."

"Oh trust me, sir, I'm not pretending."

"Right," Fury says. "Because you're just angry and not at all afraid of what might happen if the thieves use the scepter on you again."

"Am I worried about being Loki's or anyone else's puppet again? You bet your ass I am! Now I see why you wanted to observe my psych session, so you could throw it all in my face."

"Alright, that's enough!" Nat says, standing up abruptly from the armchair. "Respectfully, sir, you're defensive because he's right. But Clint, he's our handler and assigning blame isn't constructive. So both of you. Sit down."

I glance back at Fury to see if he's angry at Nat now, too, but he doesn't look it. Reluctantly I take a breath to regain my composure. "Fine," I say. "But heads better roll for this. Sir."

"Oh, they will," the director promises, taking his seat again and flipping back open the folder. "But I didn't bring you two here just to argue. We have intel that suggests that the thieves are planning to hand off the scepter at an antiquities auction in Bern, Switzerland. So that's where you're going. Your identities are in the file. Find the scepter, extract it, and fly it back to the States. I'll give you the exact drop off coordinates once you're in route. I'm not taking any chances this time."

"Sir, you know I don't speak German. Isn't that the primary language of the region?"

"I'm aware, Agent Barton. But you have more experience with the scepter than anyone besides Loki. And I doubt he's interested in joining the extraction team. So you're up. Is that going to be a problem?"

I've never liked undercover ops in countries where I don't speak the language, even if English is a widely known second language in most places. You lack flexibility when interacting with the locals, you have to depend on your partner for far too much, and you stick out like a sore foreign thumb. It's not that I don't trust Nat. My unit had a great translator in Baghdad but there's a reason I got fluent in conversational Arabic well before the end of my first tour. Being vulnerable has never been a good look on me.

Which brings me back to the scepter and the idea of falling back under it's spell. I'm still not happy with Fury for insisting on observing my eval but I have to admit it makes sense if this is our mission. I'd give almost anything to avoid encountering the scepter again and he knows it.

Anything but Nat. She's well suited for the job so I know Fury's sending her with or without me. And if I don't go who will have her back - some agent who's no better than the SHIELD operatives who managed to lose the scepter in the first place?

"No problem, sir," I say, though the words don't come easy. "I'm fine. Let's do it."


	7. The Parking Lot

"Are you sure about this?" Nat asks as we walk out of the SHIELD offices together.

"Why not?" I say. "I'm back to field status aren't I?"

Nat shoots me a glance. "That's not an answer, Barton."

"Come on, Nat, what do you want from me?"

"The usual," she says, stopping beside her car to grab her go bag from the back seat. "I want the truth, Barton."

"I thought the truth was flexible, not the same to all people all the time."

"No, Barton, that's what I think. You just think that's a convenient justification for deception," she says, falling back into step with me. "Unfortunately you owe me a hell of a lot more than that."

"So you admit it's me that's in your debt, not the other way around?" I say with a smirk.

Nat glares at me. "I can hurt you," she says with a small twitch of a smile.

"I know you can."

The words come out a little more serious than I meant, probably because it's true. She can hurt me. Easily. So easily it's unnerving since I'm not talking about physical pain, although of course she could hurt me that way, too.

"It's no fun if you're going to take it so seriously," she says. "Do you want to talk about something?"

"Forget it," I say, opening the trunk of the silver Porsche I won from the SHIELD acquisitions department on a bet two years ago. "Missions like this just put me on edge is all."

Nat puts her go bag in the trunk, catching my keys easily as I toss them to her, and slides gracefully into the driver's seat. "Which part?"

"Being undercover when I don't speak the language," I say. "The other part goes without saying. So yeah all of it actually."

"You know you don't have to do this," she says, glancing over to look at me as she starts the engine.

"Well I'm not going to watch you go after that damn scepter alone," I say. "I have a promise to keep, remember?"

Nat smiles a little. "I'm not leaving," she says, repeating the promise I made to her years ago as SHIELD agents swarmed around us to take her into custody. "Of course I remember. You slept against the bars outside my cell every night until they offered me a deal."

"Yeah," I sat, forcing a smile. "That prison hallway was uncomfortable as hell, too. But I didn't leave you then and I won't do it now."

"A spy and a man of his word," Nat says softly, shooting me a glance as she drives. "That's why I…" But of course she doesn't finish the sentence. "You really are one of a kind, Barton."

"So I've been told."


End file.
